Sweeney Todd Meets His Baker
by Morwynn
Summary: Todd's first impressions of his return to the town he hates. Also, he learns why the name of the bakery has changed even the though the baker hasn't, and learns something about Lovett and himself in the process. A one shot turned epic.
1. Back in London

_Disclaimer: of course I don't own Sweeney Todd… : (_

Vaguely, Mr. Todd thought he heard Anthony say good-bye or something as he started off toward Fleet Street. He felt as though his head was enveloped in cotton, sights and sounds muted and distant as his head spun with the full realisation of what was happening. He had dreamed of this moment for years, envisioned every detail, how he would bound off the ship, run home, Lucy would be sitting at the window, as she had loved to do so many years ago… She would look down and see him, recognise him after all these years, and he would run up to her, she would greet him at the door… A beautiful young woman who looked just like Lucy that Mr. Todd had never seen would be standing behind his wife, wondering who this man was…

Now that he was here, he was not as chipper as he'd imagined. His old hatred, his old cynicism had failed to vanish. But they would surely melt as soon as he saw his wife again… Lucy could heal him, restore him…

It had all been so romanticized in his head, he began to realise. He had been a fool to dream. He had left out the sordid details of this stinking city. How had he forgotten? He thought he had only hated the idea, the philosophy of London, what the town _represented_ to him, not the actual, physical town. As he stalked down the streets, growing almost dizzy as he got even closer to his old home, rats scurried about his feet, squealing to each other and skittering away. Homeless men were passed out on the streets, more closely resembling the garbage they lay in than a human being. Prostitutes with dull eyes in seedy, stained dresses beckoned on every corner. Sewage had piled thickly on all sides of the road, threatening to spill and leak onto the paths of the Londoners as they made their way through the foggy morning, heads down, not talking, not looking, not paying attention, as if trying to shut out their reality. Todd couldn't blame them.

Charcoal clouds clung to the tops of the buildings as though trying to warm themselves; the grey smoke rising from the chimney tops melted and blended into the clouds forming a wall of iron, as though trying to shut in the inhabitants of the town. Todd shuddered. A slow, cool drizzle started and stopped fitfully on the street vermin that Mr. Todd waded through on the last leg of his desperate journey home. He pulled his thin coat about him against the damp chill.

From the uneven, filthy cobblestones, to the stench of the half-rotted fruit and fish in the open air markets, it all assailed him and he remembered afresh the unpleasant details that he had conveniently stuffed away as he tried in vain to paint a more idyllic picture of the section of London surrounding Fleet Street, surrounding his wife. Had his Lucy really lived among this refuse all these years? Somehow, he couldn't reconcile her golden, kind-hearted beauty with this dismal, dreary, cold place.

And all of a sudden, he was there.

A strange feeling welled up in the pit of his stomach. He hovered near the corner of the building across the street, just staring. He swallowed, looking at the building as though for the first time. It may as well have been the first time, it looked nothing like he remembered, except for that great window on the second story. He didn't feel as happy as he thought he might. There was no Lucy in the window. The whole building looked dark.

The chipped and peeling sign read "Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pies." So someone else lived downstairs now. Before, the bakery had belonged to Albert Blackwell and his wife, but evidently, the old landlord was gone. Probably moved to a bigger house to start a family, Todd reasoned, remembering that Blackwell's wife had been young. About his age, actually.

He took a slow step forward into the street. Why was he hesitating? He thought he would be running. More steadily, he crossed the street, closing the distance between his old life and the present, between the ghost of Benjamin Barker and the shade known as Sweeney Todd.

He would just step inside and inquire after the residents upstairs. If it turned out that Lucy and Johanna had moved as well, perhaps the new landlord would know of their whereabouts. But he desperately hoped--no, not hoped, that was something Sweeney Todd had abandoned long ago--rather, he desperately wanted them to still be here.

He quietly eased open the door to the shop, remaining in the doorway like a dog that's not used to being let inside the house by his owners. With a glance, he took in the interior of the shop: dusty, lackluster, and completely empty but for himself and the haggard, black clad woman behind the counter. Oblivious to his entry, she chopped away at some piece of vegetable, looking for all the world as if she had given up on life. Was this who Lucy paid the monthly rent to?

When after a moment she still did not look up, he just stood there, helpless. God, when was the last time he had spoken to a woman?

And then, she abruptly quit her chopping and realised someone was standing there. She looked at him swiftly with big, startled brown eyes and gasped.

It was the first time someone had noticed him in a very long time.

_The next chapter should be better, I promise, Mrs. Lovett's in it for more than 2 seconds!_


	2. Inside the Nasty Pie Shop

_Still don't own Mr. Todd, Mrs. Lovett, or anything interesting that might be worth taking credit for. _

"A customer!" the tired-looking woman exclaimed, both startled and excited, her deep, chocolate eyes opened wide. She thrust her knife tip-first with more force than was strictly necessary into the cutting board. Instantly, Todd grew apprehensive as to why this cutting board-stabbing woman would be so surprised to see someone in her shop. There wasn't even the smell of food cooking, Todd suddenly noticed; it only smelled stale...This _was _the right place…?

But before he had time to think, speak, or move, she had rushed to his side and asked, no _commanded_ him to sit, pushing him into a chair with surprising force. Todd just stared. He began to take in his surroundings more fully.

No, the air wasn't just stale, he realised now. There was a lingering odor under the staleness, of mold, and dry dust, like an old person's house; and beneath that, there was a trail of cheap perfume Todd imagined drifting behind this strange woman as she bustled around her dingy shop.

His sense of smell had always been acute--a gift as a barber, a curse as a prisoner chained next to countless unwashed, sweaty criminals for over a decade.

When he looked up, she was suddenly back behind the counter again, asking him if he wanted a pie, but never ceasing her endless stream of chatter about how she thought he was a ghost and how no one comes in the shop and…

Todd got lost rather quickly in the verbal barrage, focusing instead on the bugs this dark woman was squishing and stomping rather indiscreetly on the countertop and floor. After the third or fourth insect, Todd really had to wonder about this establishment and the woman who had shamelessly lifted her skirt high enough to display her red and black stockings when she crushed a beetle with her black boot.

Todd had looked away, of course--he hadn't forgotten _all _of his manners-- but he got the impression that, like him, she had forgotten what it was like to be around people, behaving properly. He had almost seen up to her knee! How indecent.

When he shifted his gaze back to her, she had flattened another bug with her hand--_in the flour on the countertop--_and then wiped her hand on her bodice! _Dear God, _Todd thought to himself, knitting his eyebrows. That was about all he could say at that point.

In the far corner of the room, he noticed there was a chipped vase of dead roses. They were blackened and crumpled, having lost their precarious hold on life and finally hanging their wispy heads in defeat, their edges still tinged with red. They teemed with a peculiar, faded beauty, a haunting image. They were somehow still beautiful in their own right, the way a garden in winter is beautiful: dark, still, promising.

Still talking (had she stopped yet?), the frazzled baker plopped a pie on a Devonshire patterned plate and blew on it. Dear God, what was that powder that her breath dispersed into the air? Mr. Todd could only hope it was flour…

He looked down, wondering how he was going to eat the thing on what he was sure was an unwashed, dusty plate. Oh, well. He'd made do in filthy Australia, he would make do in grimy London as well.

The more he stared at the floor, he realised it appeared to have once been black and white checked, but was now more like grey and... other shade of grey check. It was a little bit sticky.

He noticed a dead mouse on the floor. It only added to the sick ambience this place was emitting.

Dimly, he heard her ask him if he wanted ale, which he wouldn't have minded, but then she carried on chattering some more, depositing the pie in front of him and turning once again to the counter, as though it were the customer's job to serve her by listening to her prattle.

"These are probably the worst pies in London," he heard her admit, and he found himself agreeing before he'd even taken a bite: it was hard and half covered in mold. On the bright side, the plate was only a little dirty looking. He swallowed and played with the pie a little bit, buying some time. He made the mistake of smelling it.

He wouldn't do that again.

But still, he felt obligated to at least take one bite, so she wouldn't feel bad…or, rather, worse than she did already. And he really washungry.

Holding his breath, he took a bite, more for show than anything else.

"Is that just disgusting?" she asked him, and to his astonishment, she looked almost proud for a moment. Amused, at the least. And she was most definitely _correct. _

He waited until she turned around to fill up a cup with ale, and he couldn't spit that pie out fast enough or far enough. Holy God, this tripe rivaled what he'd been forced to eat in prison! It was definitely worse even than the food on that blasted ship.

He could still feel the bile rising in his throat. Unable to spit it all out in one go, she turned around before he could get rid of the rest. For her sake, he held it in his mouth, eyes watering, until she set the mug of ale on his table and--thank heavens--turned away again.

He let the rest of the pie drop out of his mouth at last.

This better be worth it.

He swished the saliva around in his mouth, trying anything to get that god awful taste out quick.

And somehow, she was still talking! Did she never stop, even just to breathe?

She must be awfully lonely.

While she talked, she began pounding more dough on the table, with more strength and force than he would have imagined. Then she got out the rolling pin, and she was downright creepy. It made him a little nervous, the way she hit the dough with it, instead of rolling it like it was made to do, and the way she gestured so violently with it. Evidently that… Mrs. Mooney? really made her upset. Even Mr. Todd knew it didn't take _that_ much force to flatten dough. Then again, if _she_ had made the dough…

But now, he was just wasting time and losing patience. He tried to get a word in edgewise, but it just didn't work. It was like trying to hail a train. She didn't see him raise his hand, she was too focused on bludgeoning her dough, and listening to herself talk. He gave up again.

He noticed the framed photograph behind her, hanging on the wall. Black and white, a bald and bloated older gentleman stared through the glass. Poor bloke probably had listen to her day in and day out.

Truth be told, the more he heard, the more Mr. Todd understood what bothered her about that other baker; Mrs. Mooney, if anything, sounded even creepier than this Mrs. Lovett, baking cats into pies? God, he hated London. Only a Londoner would--

"I'm telling' you, them pussy cats is quick!"

Did she just say what he thought she said? He looked down so she would miss the look that passed over his face, but instantly, he wished he hadn't. At that moment, he saw a glistening, black bug crawl out from the pie he had just bitten into and scurry away across the table.

He really thought he was going to throw up now. Were cats really so much worse than live bugs? he asked himself, only half joking at this point.

Maybe a stiff swig of ale was what he needed, to rid himself of the taste of the pie and of the urge to vomit. He reached for his tankard and took a sip.

If anything, it was somehow even worse than the pie (minus the bugs--he was pretty sure). He actually gagged, vowing not to put another thing in his mouth as long as he was in this revolting bakery. Honestly, is this what his home had become?

She said something about having limited wind.

_Limited_ something, _anyway, _Todd thought, irritated and sick.

He looked up at her, ready to snap, to tell her to shut up, but something made him stop.

She was straightening from settling the pie tray onto the oven rack and Todd appraised her the way he had examined every other sordid detail of the shop. She was the last ornament that completed this dark, worn down, disheveled scene. She seemed frayed; she exhibited a shadowy, faded, but discernable attractiveness that, now he had discovered, would not be forgotten. Her dress had slipped off one shoulder. Sweeney stared at that shoulder, that pale skin.

But he could feel the bile rising in his throat again, and swallowed harder, trying his best not empty the contents of his stomach onto the grey, sticky floor.

He didn't meet her eyes; he didn't want her to see the disgust on his face.

That is, if she would slow down and really see him.

He _thought _she had been distracted enough to miss it all, but her voice changed all of a sudden. She wasn't just talking to herself anymore; she was actually addressing him this time. And a good thing, too, because she was offering him more alcohol. He needed something stiffer, and she could tell.

Maybe she wasn't all bad...?

He still wouldn't bet on it, but if she could take him to his family, he would eat a hundred of her dreadful, bug filled pies…

_Crap, I forgot about 853 scenes between the one I wanted to start with and the one I wanted to end with. Dang it!!1!_ _Maybe I can find a clever way to skip forward._

_Be warned, if you want another chapter, I hope you don't like Lucy, because I probably won't be particularly nice about her._

_And to think this was going to be a one shot!_

_Please review and tell me what you want!_


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